Afterward by Mike
by wrldpossibility
Summary: The Afterward multi-chapter story, from Mike's POV. Simple as that! If you guys like this, I'll continue it.
1. Chapter 1

Mike Scofield had just had probably the very worst day of his life. And now he was back in his bed like it had all been a dream, except it _hadn't_ been a dream and even though he was really, really tired, he couldn't turn off all the really bad things that had happened. Instead, they kept playing in his head like a movie, even though Mom wanted him to try to go to sleep: Jacob taking him to that office he'd never seen before, telling him his father, who Mike _knew_ he'd seen, was not really his father, but that his father was actually dead. For sure dead, for real. Then Jacob telling him his mom was…that Mom was…Mike couldn't even think it this time, but he saw it, saw the red anger that splashed all over the inside of his own head when he heard Jacob's words, spilling the sad-sad-sad everywhere.

He saw his mom and Uncle Lincoln coming to get him, his fear more of an orange color than his angry red color or his sad color, pulsing super bright everywhere as he ran to them. And when Mom's arms came around him, she didn't know why he cried so hard…Mike decided she'd been ready for medium-hard crying but not can't-control crying, and now he still couldn't stop, even though he was in his room and in his bed and under his covers. Because what if Jacob came back and tried to hurt them again?

Mom talked to him softly, into his ear, on and on: Jacob had lied to him. Jacob had told him the wrong things to confuse him, but Mike had been smart, and Mike had been brave, and he'd been right to go to his father at the lake house. He'd been a good boy to know who he was, and he'd been a good boy to run, even if he got tricked and ran to Jacob. She told him Jacob was sick: not sick like had-to-stay-home-from-work but sick like confused, where he told people the wrong things, probably himself, too. She told Mike Jacob had wanted to win: win Mike, maybe, Mom didn't really know, but that instead, his father had won and he would be coming home.

That last part stuck out to Mike like a yell, because, what? Coming home? Mom had said lots and lots of things about Mike's father before, things like smart and mysterious and like-a-storm, but never 'coming home'. Never ever.

Mike had always wanted his father to come back, he'd pretended it lots of ways: maybe his father was a secret agent, and he'd sneak into Mike's school to get him. Or maybe it was like in Guardians of the Galaxy and he lived on another planet, but Mike would fly there one day. Or maybe, and this was Mike's favorite, he wasn't Superman or super-anything, but would save Mike from an evil super villain anyway. _Oh._ Maybe he sort of had.

But 'coming home' for real? That was scarier, and Mike really only wanted it to be him and Mom tonight. He buried his face into her shirt as he cried, and when he heard the front door open, then heard voices, his whole body went tight, and he couldn't move, like his brain had suddenly ordered, 'run!' and 'hide!' at the same time. Mom heard the voices too, but her body suddenly relaxed, like her legs and arms had turned to puddles. "Finally," she breathed.

"In here," she called, and Mike wanted to press his hand over her mouth.

"No, no," he whispered, and he buried himself deeper, tightening his grip on her. After a minute, he thought he heard Uncle Lincoln, though, so Mike peeked out of the covers around Mom, just to make sure, and then he saw him: his father from before, from the lake house and from the video Mom let him watch and from the photos he had. But what if it wasn't? What if Jacob was right and Mom was wrong?

But could Uncle Lincoln be wrong, too? Could all the grown-ups be wrong? Mike didn't know. He tried very hard to be braver than usual, to look right at Uncle Lincoln and at his maybe-father storm that had come back, and Uncle Lincoln came and sat on the bed and tried to get him to lie back down, but then Mom tried to get up and _no, no, no._ Not that.

He gripped her arm and side as tight as he could, until eventually she gave up and lay back down, and even though Mike knew this was not what she wanted, he didn't care. Didn't care. He squeezed his arms around her and would not let go. He saw Uncle Lincoln leave the room, and then he saw his father stay, and then his eyes agreed to close and he didn't remember anything more.

* * *

In the morning, things didn't seem quite as bad. His very worst day of his life was a full day behind him now, and the way he remembered it had gotten a little bit softer, not as rough and bright, like his new soccer jersey had gotten softer after the first wash. No one was in his room, and everything sounded quiet, so Mike got up to look for Mom. He walked down the stairs to the kitchen, and froze on the last step: his father was there, at the table. He was hurt. Mom was taking care of him, using that brown bottle of stinging stuff Mike remembered from when he fell off Dylan's skateboard. His father looked like Zeus from his Greek gods book, sitting in the chair, back curved and shoulders bent, 'cause gods could get injured…they could even die. Mike's kitchen had been turned into a page from his comic books. Maybe he'd create a new hero: Dr. Storm getting nursed back to life.

"That hurts," he said, before thinking better of it. Before his brain could decide to stay sneaky and quiet instead.

Immediately, his father looked up at him. He looked at him very intensely, like he'd stopped breathing. _Intense_ was on Mike's spelling list last week, so he knew. Mom said something, but Mike didn't really hear her, because his father's eyes had kind of pinned him, silencing everything. After a moment, his father held his hand out to Mike, and Mike knew he should take it, because Mom had taught him that: shake grown-ups' hands, say _nice to meet you._ Except Mike couldn't move, because of the eye-pinning superpower.

He stood there on the step, staring, and then his father swallowed; Mike could see his throat work and that seemed more real-person than superhero, and for some reason, seeing that made Mike braver.

"You're really my real dad? Not pretending to be?"

"I'm really your real dad," he answered, "and I am very, very glad to officially meet you."

This allowed Mike to finally move his feet. He stepped into the kitchen and shook his father's hand.

It felt weird. Like electricity between their palms when they touched, but at the same time, like anybody's hand, just normal. How could it be both, Mike wondered? He studied his father from this closer-up angle. He really was just like in the video Mom kept, in the photos Uncle Lincoln had, and the one Mom had, which was their wedding. Mom liked to say, _you were there that day, too, Mike,_ but he didn't remember it, of course. He hadn't been born yet.

He leaned up on the counter so he could see what Mom was doing now. The wound on his father's shoulder was gross, but Mike wanted to watch anyway. There was lots of blood on the gauze Mom used, but Mom wasn't like some of the other moms he knew who freaked out at stuff like that. Even when there was lots of blood, like now, she was quiet and calm.

He asked about her gloves, though, because gloves were a safety thing, and Mom was big on safety, but she said, "Just like I don't need to wear gloves when you get a cut, I don't need gloves with your father." This made sense: they were both Michaels, Mike supposed. Kind of the same. They talked some more, mostly about Jacob, but thinking about Jacob made Mike sad and his stomach queasy and he was glad when they stopped.

* * *

Mike stayed right next to Mom all day. Because what if she was wrong? What if something bad still happened? Uncle Lincoln came back to the house, and he hugged Mike's father super hard, even though he'd just seen him yesterday. Mom hugged his father too, when Mike was resting with his books, but he still watched them carefully. They hugged for a very long time, more like holding, really, not talking, not moving. Just holding. Mike wasn't sure how this made him feel. Good, he thought? But also scared. Because Mom definitely cared about his father being here a scary amount.

They all went to the park in the afternoon. Some lady Mike didn't know came, a friend of Uncle Lincoln's. Mike didn't mind. Uncle Lincoln always had a lady friend. He sat by Mom most of the time, until it got too boring, listening to Mom talk with the other adults, and then he went to the playground. But it was boring there too, by himself. Mom came and watched him, but she didn't play with him, like she usually would. She sat on the bench with his dad, and they talked. It was serious-talk, Mike decided, watching them from the monkey bars, the hushed kind of talking that wasn't meant for kids, but it seemed different than when Mom talked with Jacob this way. When Mom and Jacob serious-talked, it meant: argument. Followed by: pretend it didn't happen. This serious-talk was not angry, just…intense. Maybe everything was intense now. It ended with Mike's father taking Mom's hand and holding it and then kissing it. Mike froze, hanging from the bar. Jacob had never done that, never ever, but probably he should have, because it made Mom happy, Mike could see that. Mike's father touched Mom's cheek then, very gently, right where Mike knew Jacob had hurt her, and in his tummy, Mike felt a little lurch of gladness like when LJ talked him into riding the rollercoaster at the fair.

* * *

Whenever Mike closed his eyes, he still saw terrible things. Things he couldn't even tell Mom. Things that wouldn't go away, even if he squeezed his eyes very tightly and screamed. It didn't matter whether he was in his bed or it was the middle of the day, the scary images stayed super clear, the same way things around Mike were clear all the time: he could see how things worked just by looking at them, see how they were put together, and now, he could see how terrible things happened, from start to finish.

This was why Mike needed to stay home from school, and needed to be near Mom all the time. Especially at bedtime. Tonight, the terrible things were so terrible, he cried even when Mom left for just a minute, just to get a glass of water, she said, or even just to step into the hall.

Knowing his father was downstairs didn't make it easier for Mike to calm down. It made him more worried that Mom might have to go away, down the stairs. Mike wasn't afraid of his father, exactly, he wasn't what was scary. No, he was starting to seem more like a person and less like a superhero, though he had solved Mike's mazes super fast. That had been kind of awesome. But Mike still wanted only Mom.

But then she _did_ go away, getting up and saying _one minute Mike._ This made him cry again; even though he didn't really want to, the crying wasn't something that felt like a choice. And then he heard her at the bottom of the stairs, saying something like _sorry, I'm trying._ Mike tried to stay really quiet and still, to hear more, but then: feet on the stairs again, so Mom was coming back. But it wasn't Mom.

His father had come upstairs instead, which was _not okay._ Mike felt his whole body go stiff, like Dylan's cat did that one time, when he had suddenly seen a dog across the street and froze, right there on the sidewalk.

"Where's my mom?" he called.

"She right downstairs, but you've worn her out," he heard his father say. "Let's give her a little break, okay?"

No. _Not okay._ Mike buried himself deeper under his covers, only, he kept one eye out, so he could see when his father came in the room and sat down against the wall.

"When I was your age, I was scared at night," he said, but that didn't seem like it could be true, to Mike. More lies. "To be honest," he added, and Mike opened his other eye; honest sounded better. "I was scared all the time, day or night, didn't matter."

All the time, just like Mike? That couldn't be right. But just in case, Mike shifted under his Star Wars blanket and looked out. "What were you scared of?"

"Oh, lots of things." Mike listened as he told him about fears he understood: fear for his mother. Fear of being left behind. Mike tried to imagine Uncle Lincoln as a little kid and couldn't.

"Has he ever made you a crane?" his father was asking. "A paper one?"

Mike shook his head, but paper crane reminded him. "Like the one on Mom's back?" This interested Mike: Mom didn't talk about her crane. She just called it _something I needed to do._ His father called it a talisman, a protector Mike could have, too. Mike liked this version better.

"Can I come over there? Show you?" his father said, and even though he asked, Mike didn't know whether he could say no. He didn't know whether he wanted to say no, either.

"Okay."

He turned on the lamp, and that made things better. In the light, Mike didn't have to fill in quite so many blanks as in the dark. His brain didn't have to work quite as hard. He watched carefully as his father folded a piece of paper, turning it into a crane like by magic. When it was his turn to try, his stomach suddenly felt filled with butterflies. What if he couldn't do it? There were lots of steps…what if he messed them up? Wouldn't his father realize maybe Mike wasn't so great, then? Even though he'd liked his mazes?

He made the first two folds, then…ahhh. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember. He couldn't—

His father laid his hands over Mike's, to show him. Mike kind of froze again, like the dumb cat. But then his father was folding the paper with him, they were doing it together, and Mike remembered how, and it wasn't really too hard, making the crane. "What does it do?"

"Nothing."

What?

"I'm not going to lie to you, Mike," his father said, and Mike looked up sharply. This was two times already: two times his father said he would only tell Mike the truth. Mike was keeping count. "That's just a piece of paper," he said, "and fear is just air, not even that."

Just air. That seemed true, Mike decided, at least while the room was lit, yellow in all the corners.

"What's your biggest fear, the very worst one, right this second?"

Mike didn't hesitate. "Mom will need me, and I'll be too far away."

Mike's father let out a small, quick breath, like he'd been hit in the stomach. Mike had been hit in the stomach once, by Thomas at school, when he'd wanted to get on the bus first. That had been wrong. But Mike didn't know if saying this fear, about Mom, was wrong or right. He only knew that Mom was his number one most important person.

"Do you not like being upstairs, when we're downstairs?" his father asked, and that was true too. Mike didn't like that. "You're closer than you think, you know."

His father showed him what he meant, crawling on the floor to the far side of Mike's bed. Mike was too curious not to follow. He stopped at the big, breathy hole on the floor.

"I don't like to look at that hole," Mike said swiftly.

But his father told him it was a pathway, a way for Mike to get to Mom, if he ever needed to, which he probably wouldn't, but it was good to be prepared. Mike pressed his ear to that hole, heard the TV, and when he lifted his head, his father was looking at him with a smile. He hadn't smiled too much, and this smile, it snagged at something in Mike's memory, which was silly, because he'd never met his father before this week. But…and then Mike remembered. This smile, where his father's eyes kind of crinkled and his face looked all warm, had been his smile on the video Mike liked to watch. The one where Mike's father talked to Mom and Uncle Lincoln about being free. He'd been saying he loved them, when he'd smiled like that, just like he smiled now at Mike, the side of his face against the floor.

This didn't make much sense to Mike, because his father couldn't possibly love him, too. He'd just met him, and Mike didn't really think love at first sight could be a real thing, even though his friend Maddy thought so. But just having his father look at him this way, the way he'd looked at Mom and Uncle Lincoln, made Mike feel more safe. More like maybe it would all be okay, and that _he'd_ be okay if he went to sleep tonight. It reminded him that Mom would be okay, too, with someone who looked at her like this.

When his father turned off the light and sat back down against the wall, Mike realized he didn't want him that far away. "There's room for you here, if you want a pillow," he offered. "It's R2D2."

He held his breath as his father accepted and came back over; the mattress dipped when he lay down beside him, but now, instead of feeling scared or nervous, Mike felt relieved he was close. Like maybe his father could take care of some of the scary things for a while, so Mike could sleep.

* * *

When Mike woke up, he realized two things super quick: he _finally_ didn't feel tired anymore, and his father wasn't still in his room with him. A quick glance down the hall to peek into his mom and Jacob's room told him he wasn't there, either, and neither was Mom. She hadn't even slept there: the bed was still made, the throw pillows all still arranged as they'd been yesterday. They must be in the downstairs guest room again, where sometimes Uncle Lincoln slept when he visited. Mike took a moment to try to decide whether he minded this, and decided he didn't: Mom had been really tired, too. Maybe with Mike's father lying down with her, she'd been able to sleep like Mike had.

He walked downstairs, but the guest bedroom door was closed, so he continued to the kitchen to get himself breakfast. When Mom slept in, he was allowed to make cereal. But when he rounded the corner into kitchen, his father was there, already up, standing by the window. Mike stopped short, kind of skidding on the tile floor.

"Hi, Mike," he said softly. He seemed happy to see him.

"Hi," he breathed, but Mike wasn't so sure how _he_ felt. He'd planned to get his cereal without someone else here, someone like his father who made him sort of nervous. "I thought you were still asleep," he said.

"I don't sleep quite as much as I'd like to," his father answered. "I'm hoping that will change, here with you and your mom." He didn't sound like he thought it would, though.

Mike thought of the way ideas and images always turned over, around and around, in his mind when he tried to rest. "It can be hard to sleep when so many things want you to see them and study them when you close your eyes," Mike offered. "All of them screaming at you."

His father's face kind of twitched into a surprised frown, and Mike wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. Maybe that was just him, with the spinning, screaming things in his head. But then he nodded. "Yes," he sighed. "That's when it's hardest." He looked almost sadly at Mike, so Mike hefted himself up on the counter and changed the subject.

"Do you want cereal? We have Cheerios and Chex and Raisin Bran, but I hate raisins, so that last one is actually only an option for you, not me."

He saw his father's lip twitch in a smile, but then he said, "I'll remember that."

Mike waited for him to pick, then pivoted around on the counter to look at him when he didn't. "I thought maybe," his father said, "I'd make your mom breakfast. Do you want to help?"

Mike's hand stilled on the box of Chex he'd reached for. "Not cereal?"

"Do you like eggs?"

"Sometimes," Mike hedged, because it depended. He hated the runny ones. He told his father this.

"Omelettes then, maybe," his father said. "Or scrambled. We'll see what we come up with."

They set to work, Mike sitting on the counter so he could point to where each dish and utensil lived, behind which cabinets and drawers. His father popped some bread into the toaster, an appetizer, he said, and Mike asked, "Can it be cinnamon toast?"

The cinnamon and sugar were already mixed, in their own little container, because Mike loved cinnamon toast and ate it a lot, so Mom had it all ready, but his father kept looking for the sugar somewhere else. "No," he told him, "Look in there, um…um…" Mike needed to get his attention, but realized he didn't know what to name to use for his father. His teacher, Mrs. A, said questions were always okay, he decided to just ask.

"What should I call you?"

His father stopped looking for the sugar immediately, and turned toward him. His face looked very unsure, but also very hopeful, and also almost sad again. Mike thought that seemed like a lot of things to feel at once. He took a minute to answer, like maybe he needed courage first, and was waiting for it to get there. Mike had felt that way, when he'd had to read his rocks and minerals report to the whole class.

"I hope you'll call me Dad," he said slowly, "but I know I haven't earned that, yet."

This seemed silly to Mike. You didn't earn a name. Names were just given to you, whether you deserved them or not. He should know: he had been given a big, important name, and hadn't done a single thing to earn it.

"I'll call you Dad," he told him agreeably. It would be fun; he'd never had one before. He tried it out: "The cinnamon sugar is right there, Dad." He pointed, but his dad still didn't reach for it. He still just looked at Mike, swallowing hard like Mike sometimes did when he didn't want to cry. Why? Maybe it was like when he and Dylan pretended new names for each other. You didn't respond to it right away, because you forgot it meant you. He pointed again, and his dad finally found the cinnamon sugar.

"Do you like Norse mythology?" Mike asked him, as the toast popped. Most people didn't, so Mike wasn't too hopeful.

But his father—Dad—nodded. "I like Odin best," he said, "because he stands for honor and nobility."

Mike agreed. "And he wanders through far lands all the time, never staying home where it's boring."

His dad frowned at this, but said, "Mmm." He cracked a bunch of eggs in a bowl, and started the burner on the stove. Mike knew how to turn on those burners, but wasn't allowed. "Do you want to do this part?" his dad asked, handing him the whisk they'd found in a drawer. While Mike stirred the eggs, his dad looked through all the spices they had, and selected a bunch of things.

"How do you know which to pick, if you don't use a recipe?" Mike asked. When Jacob used to cook, he used recipes. _By the book,_ he called it.

"Cooking is just chemistry," his dad said. "Foods and flavors reacting with one another."

This way sounded more fun than recipes. He watched as his dad added the ingredients from the spice cabinet. When the egg mixture hit the pan, it smelled good.

He ate his toast while his dad stirred the eggs on the stove, and they talked more about Odin. Well, mostly Mike did. When he'd almost finished his toast, he looked up to see Mom in the doorway.

"Here she is," his dad said, and he looked at her happily, like he'd looked at Mike happily earlier. Mike waved at her.

"That's all I get, a toast-wave?" she said, but she was smiling and she seemed happy, too. Very happy, really. She kissed his head, and seemed to assess him, too. "You seem chipper. Get enough sleep, finally, buddy?"

"Mmmmhmm," he told her. because his mouth was full of toast so he shouldn't talk.

"God, I think we all did," she said, then she looked at Mike's dad. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, good night for sure," he told her, even though Mike knew he hadn't slept very much. Mike watched as he kissed her head, like she had kissed Mike's. It made his stomach do that little leap again, like when he'd seen his dad kiss Mom's hand at the park. Mike felt pretty certain no one loved Mom as much as he did, but it made him feel good, kind of warm inside, to think maybe his dad came close.

She didn't want any coffee, which was a bummer, because Mike liked working the coffee machine, but there was more work to do with the eggs. He brought her the first plate when they were done, which looked pretty with some orange slice twist thing his dad had made with the paring knife. Even the toast looked fancy, cut in triangles.

Mom looked impressed, too. "I thought we were just having eggs," she said. He explained 'plating' to her the way his dad had explained it to him, adding, "Dad says cooking is just chemistry. Did you know that, Mom?"

She said she supposed that was true, but looked at Mike's dad in surprise, her eyes widening as she communicated something to him the way grown-ups sometimes did, without words. It annoyed Mike; he didn't need her saying secret things. What if it was about him, and made his dad like him less? Mom wouldn't do that, but still: "He's better at cooking than you, so I guess he's better at chemistry," he told her.

Mike's dad argued this point, and Mike supposed that was fair. He knew exactly how old Mike was, right down to the exact day, which even Mike didn't know. And knowing that, it was easy to know exactly how many breakfasts Mom had made for him, all his life. The answer was 2,303, which was a _lot._

* * *

Being at home this week felt like Spring Break: lots of days without school. "But you know there is school, right?" Mom asked him softly, as they sat together on the couch. "You've just been allowed to be home this week, because of all that's happened."

Mike knew, and with a pang, he wondered if his teacher had approved it. "Did Mrs. A say it was okay?" he asked, snuggling closer to Mom. He liked this: just him and Mom for a few minutes.

She nodded. "She hopes to see you next week," Mom said. "How does that sound?"

It sounded both good and bad to Mike: he didn't want to miss anything, but how could he leave Mom alone? How could he go to school without her? He couldn't, and that was all there was to it. "Next week at school?" he clarified. "Without you there?"

"I'm never there, Mike, at school. And you always do just fine." She reminded him it was music block, then promised she'd be there to pick him up.

But wait: that wasn't right. That wasn't how they always did things. "But you never pick me up," Mike corrected her. "Jacob picks me up." As he said the words, he knew they were wrong now, outdated. He hated it when things changed. Mom should be at work at pick-up time, not at the school. Did that mean... "Are you not going back to work?"

"I'm going back to work, yes," she said. "But Jacob won't pick you up anymore, baby."

"He's not coming back, right?" he asked, concentrating very hard on the sweep of Mom's fingers on his back. That was a _good_ feeling, while thinking about Jacob felt bad.

Mom said, no, Jacob wouldn't be back, and they talked about why, even though mostly, Mike already knew. "But it's okay to miss him," Mom said, but Mike only had to think about the bruise on Mom's face to feel fiery red with anger inside. To feel helpless again, lost in Jacob's lies and riddles. There should be a word for that, for that angry-helpless feeling, but there wasn't. There was only this sick churning in his stomach.

"But I don't miss him," he told Mom in a whisper.

He wanted to feel happy instead of angry-helpless-churning, and at times, these past two days, he had been. Maybe not all the way happy, but happy in little bursts, like when the sun shone in quick flares on the windshield of the car as they drove under trees…flash, flash, flash. Mom though, she was happy like a summer sun, bright and shiny, with only little clouds that cast shadows sometimes. He told her he wanted to be that, to be summer-happy, and that he probably would be soon. One of those little clouds came over her face as he said this, but even so, he thought she understood.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This section picks up where to first one left off, around Chapter 4 of Afterward, and goes through the middle of Chapter 8. Not every scene from Afterward is retold; if I felt Mike's POV wouldn't lend enough of a fresh viewpoint, it didn't make the cut. And I tried to add a few scenes we didn't get to see in Afterward, because they require Mike's POV.**

Mike wasn't so sure about returning to school. Things had changed so fast last week: Mom flying far away, leaving him at home, Jacob turning tricky and then mean and then scary, Mike's dad returning…what if things changed back just as fast, or changed again - flip! - to something else entirely? It was better to stay here at home, where Mike could keep an eye on everything. But Mom said you're going, in the way that he knew meant no more arguing.

The first day was weird. Mom took him, and when she dropped him off, he got a big lump in his throat like he would cry if he couldn't see her anymore, which was super embarrassing because he was six and six-year-olds didn't cry just because their moms left. She let him sit in the car extra long, until the bell had rung and class had started, even, letting him wait to go in when he felt ready. And then even after he got to class, Mrs. A kept asking him if he was 'up to' participating in things…easy things he knew how to do, like independent reading and Math Facts. She 'checked in' with him all day long, and even let him skip PE, because it was just running laps and she knew he thought that was boring. He'd never gotten to skip before, and it wasn't as awesome to sit on the side of the track, watching everybody else, as he thought it would be.

He thought about Mom a lot, and what she was doing, and what his dad was doing, with Mom, at the house. Mike had never really thought about what Mom was doing while he was at school before…she was just at work and that was it. Since she wasn't going back to work for a few more days, Mike didn't see why he couldn't wait to go back to school, too.

It was a little bit better after the first day, then after the third day, Mom said to him, "I'm going back to work tomorrow, so how about if your dad picks you up from school?"

Mike saw lots of problems in his head all at once with this plan. He listed them off on his hand: one, his dad didn't know where school was. Two, he wasn't on Mike's PAL, which meant Parent Approved List. How would he get into the office to get a guest pass? Three, he didn't know where to park. Red curbs meant 'no' at school, not 'stop', and yellow meant 'only for a few minutes', not 'slow'. Did Mike's dad know that?

But the next morning at breakfast, his dad said, "It's going to be absolutely fine, and no problem at all, Mike," and he had a way of saying things in such a sure way, Mike actually believed him.

At school though, doubt set back in. What if the dismissal bell rang, and his dad wasn't out front? What if he thought Mike would meet him somewhere else, like that time his friend Carter's mom picked him up, and she waited by the buses instead of by the curb? Maybe he should talk to Mrs. Davis, in the office, and make a plan she could tell his dad when he arrived. He raised his hand after lunch, and asked Mrs. A for an office pass.

When he explained why he needed one, Mrs. A patted his shoulder and said, "I'm sure your father will find you just fine."

 _How_ could she be sure? This wasn't something to be sure of, at all…he'd just explained why. This made Mike feel angry, and feeling angry at Mrs. A made his throat feel all tight and lumpy again. He hardly ever felt angry at Mrs. A, his favorite teacher.

An hour later, in math class with Mr. House, Mike realized another worry. Which made him think of another. They were piling up now, stacks of worry, really: if his dad wasn't outside his classroom at dismissal, Mike didn't know his phone number to call him. And he wasn't supposed to call Mom's unless it was an emergency. But it _would_ be an emergency, if no one came to get him after school, right? Or was it? He walked to Mr. House's desk to ask.

"I'm sure your dad will be here," Mr. House said, smiling. _Why did everyone keep saying sure? No one could be sure!_ Mike had to squeeze his hands into very tight fists so he didn't yell.

"Sure means 100%," he told Mr. House very quietly. Mr. House was a grown-up and a teacher and should know this. "It is not 100% that my dad will be here. It can't be 100% until he's here."

Mr. House didn't seem to know how to answer this, probably because it was a statement, not a question. Mike knew he wasn't supposed to come to Mr. House's desk with statements. He went back to his desk and spent the rest of math drawing shapes and swirls on the side of his paper. He'd already done the assignment anyway.

Finally, finally it was time for dismissal, and Mike gathered his books in his backpack, plus the extras Mrs. A said he could take home today, and lined up at the door. He'd made a plan: if his dad wasn't on the other side of it when he walked through, he'd wait ten minutes, watching the minute hand of his watch, and then he'd walk to the office to call Mom. That's what he'd do. And then his turn came to walk out and right by Dakota's mom and Emma's mom, there he was…there he was. His dad, here at school.

He went straight to him, and his dad looked just as relieved to see him as he was to see Dad. He was ready to go, but Mrs. A called out to them, and invited his dad back into the classroom. That was okay with Mike, because the other kids had gone and he could show Dad his desk and stuff. He found his hammerhead report and let him look at it. The illustration on the front wasn't Mike's very best, but his chart on the second page maybe was, so he was glad when he turned the page and said, "Wow, this is great, Mike." That made Mike feel really good.

Dad and Mrs. A talked a little more, but not about anything Mike didn't already know. About TAG and Mr. House's class and doing what Mom called 'independent study". His dad seemed super interested in all of it, which still seemed strange to Mike, since he'd been gone all this time, never asking about TAG or recess or standardized test scores before now. Mike knew it hadn't been on purpose, his dad being away, that he'd wanted to be with him all along, but…then why wasn't he, exactly? Mike still didn't quite understand.

When they got home, his dad said, "What do you like to do after school, Mike?" He asked this in the way he asked Mike all questions: like the answer was the most important thing he'd ever needed to know.

Usually, Jacob would make a snack, and then work from home for a little while before taking Mike to soccer practice, but Mike's dad didn't seem to have work to do, and Mike didn't really want to mention Jacob, anyway. He felt himself just kind of shrug.

"I'm sort of hungry, I guess," he offered.

"Oh!" his dad said, frowning like Mike did when he was mad at himself for messing up something easy on his homework. "Of course." He spun toward the pantry, then looked at it for a long time.

Mike decided he maybe needed help, so he said, "We could make peanut butter and banana toast." He liked that, and he knew they also had Nutella, and that probably, he could talk his dad into adding it.

Once they were eating, his dad looked at the note Mom had left him on the counter and said they had thirty minutes until soccer practice. Mike already knew this, but didn't say so. He ate his toast, with double Nutella instead of the healthy peanut butter that tasted like chalk, while Dad just kind of watched him.

"How long have you played soccer?" he asked quietly.

This was his second year. "Since kindergarten. In Panama, you can start earlier, but in America, soccer starts in kindergarten." He wiped up some Nutella that had dripped off his toast onto his plate with his finger, and licked it off.

"Do you remember Panama?" Mike's dad asked.

Mike thought so, but…"Uncle Lincoln says I probably just remember people telling me about it. Remember other people's memories, which is weird." He paused. "But when I think of Panama, I think about the sand that would blow into our house and settle in the corners…really white sand, like sugar, in my room and on the back porch. The piles looked like pyramids. I don't think anybody would tell me stories about the sand, so I think I remember it."

He nodded. "That sounds like a memory to me," he said softly. "Do you have others?" He said this in a whisper, almost like he wasn't sure he should ask but wanted to know badly enough to ask anyway.

"I remember Uncle Linc's shop, by the beach, because he had all these fins, rubber ones for diving in? And they hung from pegs right where I could grab them, and one day — and this is the part that Uncle Lincoln says I just remember from stories — they all fell on top of my head. And the metal hook they were hung on stabbed me right here, by my eye."

His dad's face twitched, but like with worry, not with a smile. "Your eye?"

"Uncle Linc had to call Mom to come get me early. I got two stitches," he said, pointing under his left eye. "The clinic was just down the street, but Mom drove me all the way to the city instead. So I could see a good doctor and wouldn't have a scar. I got to sit up front," he added, which he'd forgotten until just now. "Even though I always sat in the back, in my car seat, because Mom had to press tissues to my face as she drove. That part is my memory and not someone else's," he concluded.

Mike's dad looked far away, like he was remembering this too, though Mike knew he couldn't. After a while, after Mike had finished all his snack, he said, "I wish I had been there that day, to drive you to the city for your stitches. You know that, don't you?"

Mike nodded. He guessed he knew that. But how could he be certain? His dad didn't say anything more about it; he just placed his hand on top of Mike's head, the way he seemed to like to do, and then carried his plate in the sink.

"Time for soccer practice?" he said.

* * *

"I think I want to try to surf this year," Mike said the next week, when he and Mom and Dad were all at the dinner table. He'd thought of this at school today, and Mom liked it when he remembered things from school to share at dinner.

His dad seemed to think Mike made a joke. "Surf? Where, on the Finger Lakes?" He smiled.

Mike did too, but clarified. "No, in Panama."

But saying 'Panama' today seemed like a wrong thing to say, like saying 'Jacob'. It made Mom stop eating, her fork halfway to her mouth, and made his dad look confused. Mike didn't know why…talking about Panama had been just fine last week. It made him feel very frustrated inside, when the rules changed like this. Why couldn't he talk about Panama and surfing? He was glad his dad had come back, that was good, but he changed all the rules, just by being here. That was bad.

"You're going to Panama?" his dad asked Mom.

"LJ always says he'll take me out to try," Mike said, before Mom could answer. Because see? Panama was _always_. His dad still seemed confused, so he added, "We always go, every November, for a whole week." _Always,_ he said again, in his head.

But then Mom said, "I don't know if we'll go this year, Mike," and _ughhhhhh_ that made Mike feel mad again inside, because always. He reminded her of this. "I understand that we always go," she said, "and that you look forward to it. If we don't go —"

"But we always—"

"If we don't go," Mom repeated, and Mike could see she was getting upset, too, "maybe we can meet LJ and Uncle Lincoln and Fernando somewhere else, somewhere fun for all of us."

"But Panama is fun for all of us." They saw all of Mom's friends. They had a bonfire on the beach. He got to hang out with LJ. But Mom just looked at him very hard, until Mike could hear what she was thinking, clear as if she'd spoken: _We don't go to Panama to surf. You know why we go._ Which made Mike realize: not only did he not get to go to Panama, but Mom had sided with his dad, instead of with him. The rules had changed again.

He let himself show all the mad he had inside. "Thanks for ruining surfing with my only cousin," he heard himself snap at his dad. The second he said this, part of him immediately regretted it, but a bigger part felt very glad to have said what he thought.

 _"Ruining…surfing?"_ Mom was more than mad now. She was _livid_. Livid had been a vocab word at the beginning of the year, and Mike still remembered it. She stood up very fast, so fast Mike thought her chair might tip over. "Out. Now. To your room."

He froze. It seemed to Mike that if he left now, he'd be losing. And now that he'd said what he thought, he really didn't want to lose. Maybe she wouldn't make him go upstairs, with his dad here. Maybe…

"Michael! Right. This. Instant."

All Mike's anger turned to sadness, like ice melting into a slushy, yucky puddle in his chest. He felt himself start to cry, and this was why he got up and ran out, stomping his feet very hard on every stair up to his room. Not because Mom made him. Not because he had to. He let himself scream all the way up, but only in his head, the _AHHHHHHHHHH_ super loud inside his thoughts.

In his room, he dumped out his entire seashell collection, the one with all the shells he'd found in Panama. He dragged his waste basket over, planning to throw them all away, but as soon as he saw them, he wasn't sure he wanted to do that anymore. He loved them, the curvy white one and the super smooth pink one in particular. He was still looking at his shells angrily when his dad appeared in the doorway. Mike didn't have to turn around to know it was him; his feet sounded different than Mom's on the stairs.

"Go away," he said. Because he still felt mean and mad, but also other things. Sad things...

"Why?"

He kept his eyes on the shells, studying their pinkness. He had to whisper his reason; his voice wouldn't go louder. "Because now you don't like me anymore."

"Mike? I know we just met each other. So I know I haven't told you this yet, but…the fact is, I love you. I have always loved you, and even when you say something unkind to me, I still love you."

Without looking at Dad directly, Mike chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. "That's true?"

"You know I don't lie to you."

All of a sudden, Mike couldn't remember why he'd been so mad. Because of _always_ , he guessed. Because of things changing. But he wasn't really mad at his dad, right? Because if things stayed the same, that would mean…that would mean…he wouldn't be here. That he'd still be dead, supposedly. Mike realized he didn't want that at all. He didn't want it even more than he wanted always. Before he'd really decided to do it, he flung himself at his dad.

"I don't really want…you to be…in that grave…by the beach…so I can…surf," he heard himself gasp, as the ugly slush puddle of his feelings spilled over again and he cried.

"I'm glad," Dad said. And he held him very hard against him, and even though this was a new thing, and Mike didn't usually like _new,_ it felt good, like someone beside Mom could be strong for him now, like Mike didn't have to hold it all together by himself anymore. After a while, Dad added, "Does LJ really know how to surf?"

Mike nodded. LJ could do anything. "Yeah, but I was afraid of the waves last year." He was sniffling, kind of like a baby, but right this very minute, he didn't really care. They talked about other good places for surfing, but Mike didn't know of any. Dad had a suggestion, someplace called Baja. Mike had never heard of it, but even so, he decided he'd try. He'd try to do _new._

* * *

Something else new for Mike to get used to: Mom and dad touched a lot and hugged a lot and even kissed a lot. Mike knew some moms and dads did this: sometimes, Mike saw Dylan's mom and dad hug or kiss, and it always seemed kind of weird, because Mom and Jacob had almost _never_ done that. Only after an argument, and even then, Mom usually said _Jacob, please,_ like he was giving her a headache. But now, Mom seemed to find ways to touch Mike's dad often: she'd reach for his hand, maybe, or they'd hug extra long in the kitchen, the pasta water boiling on the stove without anyone caring. When they kissed, it was usually quick in front of Mike, like Dylan's parents, but they always looked at each other like they wished it could be longer.

But then Mike saw a kiss he didn't mean to see, one he was sure Mom and Dad didn't mean for him to see, either. He'd come home early from Dylan's, because Dylan had forgotten he had karate, and this kiss was a long kiss. His dad had his hands on both sides of Mom's face like he wanted to hold her there, like she might disappear if he didn't. And that would bother Mike, that would make him feel scared, how close his dad held her to him, but Mom kissed him back like she didn't mind at all, her hands against his back, keeping him there just as tightly.

Mike let his soccer ball drop onto the floor with a loud bounce on purpose, so they'd know he was home, and it worked: they let go of each other quickly and Mom said, "Mike?" kind of high pitched, like she was out of practice of using her voice. She turned away instead of looking at him though, running her hand through her hair, which, now that Mike looked at it, seemed sort of tangled or messy or something.

His dad cleared his throat and said, "Your mom and I were just…"

Mom turned back around and gave him a look that even Mike could see meant _don't even try_ and said briskly, "What's up at Dylan's? He couldn't play?"

Mike shook his head. "Karate."

Mom still looked flustered. She said, "Hmm?" like she hadn't listened to his answer.

"Karate." Mike repeated. Before he could chicken out, he blurted, "Why do you kiss like people on TV, instead of like regular parents?"

Mom flushed again, but said, "Mike, we're sorry. We didn't see you there." This wasn't an answer to his question.

His dad said, "How do regular parents kiss?"

"Not like that," Mike informed him.

Dad sort of shrugged. "Oh."

Mom knelt down to look Mike in the eye. "I know some things feel different right now," she told him. "Not how you're used to."

Mike nodded. They'd already talked about that. Sometimes, it felt to Mike like they spent all their time talking about things now.

"And well," Mom continued, "This reminds me. Because of all these changes, Dad and I have decided that all three of us are going to go see someone about it all. A doctor, who helps people with feelings, instead of with problems in their bodies."

"Someone else new?" This made no sense to Mike.

"Someone who isn't part of our family, yes, but that's helpful, because she'll have a fresh perspective."

Mike couldn't picture how a doctor could fix feelings. Did she study their brains? He imagined bandages on his brain, and that was ridiculous. His brain wasn't broken, anyway. He turned to his dad. "Do you want to do this?" When he hesitated, Mike added, "You don't lie to me, remember?"

Dad looked at him thoughtfully. "I don't _want_ to go," he said, "but I agree that we _should_ go."

* * *

Mike decided he wouldn't like the feeling doctor, but then he met Dr. Kate and she was actually pretty okay. She didn't try to be too cool, like some adults did, and didn't treat him like a baby, either. She didn't waste too much time on warm up questions, asking right away about the big stuff: the lake house, his dad, Jacob gone, all that. Plus, she had LEGOs.

"He _is_ super important," Mike conceded, when she asked whether it was weird, having him back.

"Who? Your dad?"

"Yeah. Especially to my mom."

Mom tried to object when Mike said this, but Dr. Kate stopped her, letting Mike talk with no interruptions. This made him like her even more. He noticed that he did feel better, when he was able to think things through aloud, without anyone telling him how to feel. Even though Dr. Kate was a head doctor, Mike didn't notice the change in his head, really. More in his stomach, in the pit of it, where anxious feelings had been churning pretty much all the time. They quieted down a bit, when he talked and everyone listened.

After a while, Dr. Kate explained that his mom and dad needed to talk to her on their own for a while. He got to draw pictures with Dr. Kate's friend, Ann, in the next room, right nearby. He didn't really want to do that, but Mom said it was important that he try. Once he saw all the art supplies, he got more excited about the idea; it was more fun to draw things than to talk about things.

Ann said he could draw anything he wanted, but that most kids who came to the art room drew their family first. Mike thought how to do that, and then selected just a few colors from the rainbow of colored pencils and crayons and charcoals. He only needed black, gray, white, and something Crayola called ash, which looked like light gray. He looked at Ann, but she said that was okay…he could use whatever colors he wanted.

He drew Mom first, and then his dad, right in the middle of the paper. He used gray and black colors. Then he used the ash color to fill in all the rest of the paper, like background. When he looked at it, it seemed too dark, like a storm around them, so he used the white crayon to make it lighter. He wanted it more like a cloud. The next time he paused, Ann said, "Where are you in the picture, Mike?"

"I'm not in it."

"What's happening in it? Where are they?"

"I don't know." She looked at him, and that's when Mike realized this wasn't just a drawing room, but also another talking room. "This is before me," he explained. "This is my mom and dad from back then," he said, pointing his ash crayon at them, "and this is their life then, what they did, where they were." He pointed at the gray and ash and white. It covered the whole the paper, all except Mom and Dad, reminding Mike of when he'd woken up to his entire neighborhood covered in fog once. He hadn't been able to see a thing. "It's all the stuff I don't know."

"Does it feel like there's a lot you don't know?"

Mike nodded.

"Why don't you tell me the things you _do_ know, from before, and maybe a little bit of that gray space will be clearer."

Mike thought. "I know they loved each other." It was why he'd drawn them so close together.

"Good. _How_ do you know?"

"They say so all the time, but also…from the way Mom missed him, when we were alone or with Jacob. From the way she'd talk about him, you could tell she was talking about someone who loved her."

"I like that, Mike. I think it's very observant of you to notice that."

He shrugged. "I always notice things." He obliged Ann by shading some of the gray a little lighter with his white crayon.

"What else do you know?"

"I know some bad things happened," he said quietly. "From Mom's scars. From the way she jumps sometimes." He looked at Ann. "It's really easy to scare her, but not as fun as you think it's going to be." He took his black crayon and ruined all his lighter shading with dark streaks. "And from the way my dad sometimes shuts his eyes and can't breathe, like he's just run a mile even though he hasn't. That's why we came here, I think. Because of that."

"Sometimes that's called a panic attack," Ann said. "Or a traumatic episode." She looked at him carefully. "You've seen that?"

"I notice things," he repeated.

"Can you draw a now picture, to go with your before picture?" Ann asked.

"Would _I_ be in it?" Mike asked.

"What do _you_ think?"

"I think I am," he answered. He reached for a fresh sheet of paper, but paused with his crayon. "But I don't know where."

"What do you mean?"

He drew Mom and Dad again. They were still together on the page, still in the middle. "Sometimes, I'm here with them," he said. He wanted to draw himself right between them, but…was there room? His mind flashed upon the memory of them kissing in the kitchen. There hadn't been room for him then. "But sometimes I'm over here," he said, pointing to the other side of the paper, "with Mom." He drew them together, a second Mom, a first Mike.

"And then where is your dad?"

"By himself." He put him at the other end of the paper.

"So sometimes you're by yourself, and sometimes your dad is. Is your mom ever by herself?"

Mike shook his head. "No. Mom is always with me or with Dad. She has to always decide." He added another Mom next to the solo Dad.

"Do you think maybe she wants all of you in the same place on the paper? So she doesn't have to go back and forth?" Ann pointed to all the Moms he'd drawn.

This seemed true to Mike. He thought of the breakfast they'd had together, when Mike had helped Dad cook. Mom had been so happy that morning. She'd smiled so much. At both of them. "Sometimes we are," he told her. "Sometimes Mom doesn't have to do all that running in-between."

"Can you think of something you'd like to do together, the three of you?" Ann asked.

"I wanted to go to Panama," Mike supplied, "but Mom said no." This still made his chest kind of ache, like there was some leftover anger in there. "But they said we'd go somewhere else, for a new tradition."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I don't like new," Mike said swiftly. "But I like traditions, and since Mom called it that, it means we'll do it again. More than once, with all three of us." He toyed with the second picture, adding an airplane going somewhere called Baja. He put himself in it, with Mom and Dad. "I think I'll like that," he said.

* * *

Flying from New York to Chicago seemed like a magic trick to Mike. When they left home, he hadn't even needed a sweater, the weather had been so sunny, but by the time they landed in Illinois, it was snowing. Outside the airport, the bright streetlights made each flake glow as it floated, fat and lazy, down on Mike's head, and he tipped his face up to them, catching some on his tongue as they walked with their bags to the train station.

Dad said the train was called the 'El', which stood for elevated, not the letter L, and it was interesting at first, to watch the airport disappear outside the window, then the city begin to flash by in the dark, the snow now streaking by in white lines against the black windows. But after a while, the steady thump-thump of the train car against the rails made him feel sleepy, and Mike rested his head against his dad's shoulder, closing his eyes.

When he woke up, Dad was lifting him up and carrying him off the train, and outside, it was cold. Mike knew he probably could walk on his own two feet, but he didn't want to: he liked feeling Dad's arms around him, his jacket slung over him, keeping him dry. He pretended he hadn't woken up, closing his eyes, letting their destination be a surprise. It felt like he was floating in the dark under the coat, the traffic sounds muffled, his dad's heartbeat thumping against Mike's ear. He was probably pretty heavy. He tightened his arms around Dad's neck, forgetting that he would know then that he was awake.

He didn't ask him to get down, just hefted him up tighter in his arms, saying something to Mom as the snow fell around them. A minute later, a blast of warm air hit Mike, and the street noise fell away. He lifted the jacket off his head to peer around the lobby of a fancy hotel. It was crowded.

His dad lowered him to the ground, and Mike's eyes lit upon a plate of cookies by the check-in desk. He looked immediately back at him for permission. Mike had been learning this lately: his dad was in charge, just like Mom.

"Yeah, go ahead," Dad said, and Mike ran over to the cookies. There was hot chocolate, too, in a fancy metal dispenser, and Mike had some of that too, without asking, exactly. It warmed him up right away, and when he looked back over at his parents, Mom had their room keys and waved him back over.

In the elevator, Dad told Mike to hit the number 19, and they shot up, almost to the top of the hotel. Their room seemed as fancy as the lobby, with two big beds and big windows that looked down, down, down at the river and bridges. He shivered again, looking at the snow falling, and Mom drew him a bath in the big tub, letting him use all the fancy soaps that said Westin on them, stamped right on the soaps themselves.

The hot water made him feel sleepy again, and when he got out, Mom had found his pajamas and he tugged them on, hoping she'd let him skip brushing his teeth. He was too tired.

Dad looked up from reading a big leather folder that had been in the room when they got there. "Are you hungry?" he asked, but Mike shook his head. He just wanted to get into bed, and Dad tucked him into the big one, on the far side of the room. He found the pillow that was just the right amount squishy, and pulled the covers up. Over the edge of the sheet, he watched his dad put his arms around Mom, standing at the window, and then Mike couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. The last thing he heard was Mom's whispered voice, and his dad's, answering her.

* * *

In the morning, Mike woke up to the smell of pancakes. They had come on a little rolling tray with a heavy metal cover over the plate, just like on TV. Dad had ordered them from that big folder, and since Mike hadn't been up yet to say which kind, he'd gotten blueberry _and_ chocolate chip. Outside, snow blanketed everything, and Mom dug out Mike's jacket, then decided it wasn't heavy enough. They bought him a brand new one downstairs in the little shop by the lobby, even after Mom looked at the price tag and said, "Ridiculous."

They took a bus through the city, and when Mike asked where they were going, both Mom and Dad agreed: somewhere he was going to love. They were right: the Field Museum had everything: dinosaurs and mummies and insects pinned to felt. There was even a room for doing experiments in, and they stayed all morning, and Mike would have stayed longer, but his stomach growled too hard for Mom to ignore, even after eating almost all the pancakes.

They ate slices of pizza that Dad said were from the best place in town and Mom said only the third-best; she's show Mike the best some other time. Even though Mike was mostly focused on eating his slice, which seemed like probably the best to him, too, he noticed that his parents were in very good moods. Before arguing about pizza places, they'd argued about Cubs seats and before that, Loyola vs Northwestern, but always while smiling at each other. It was like they were remembering things together, even though when he asked, Dad said they hadn't really known each other in Chicago, not really.

They went to the lakeshore next, which looked as big as an ocean. It was windy here, and even colder than anywhere else in the city. You could see all the skyscrapers—Dad called this the skyline—and even though the water chopped at the shore in tiny waves, he showed Mike how to pick smooth rocks to skip across the lake. Mom didn't join them; she just looked at the water, and when Mike had skipped all his rocks, even the best ones Dad had found for him, he noticed that they were talking quietly, looking serious for the first time all day. It made Mike feel suddenly colder, like a shiver, and he pressed himself between them, wanting Mom to make him warmer. Wanting to warm Mom up, too.

"It's freezing here," he said, and his plan worked. Mom's expression shifted as she saw Mike, her eyes warming.

"Thank God I made the right choice," this made her say to his dad, and then kissed him, and his face softened too. Mom took Mike's hand. "Let's go. I know where we can find hot cocoa."

They walked back across the park toward a restaurant where Dad said they'd meet Uncle Lincoln, and Mike scooped up handfuls of snow along the way, even though he didn't have gloves and the icy slush made his hands sting. It was fun to lob snowballs at his parents, who pretended not to notice. He decided he liked Chicago, even though it was freezing and wasn't Panama. He liked who Mom and Dad were here…relaxed and smiling a lot. Mike decided he'd tell Dr. Kate and Ann that, when he got home. How he'd noticed that Chicago was a place that made his parents happy. How seeing his mom and dad happy made Mike happy, too, warming him inside, even in the snow and slush and wind.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This installment covers chapter 8-12 of Afterward, picking up mid-way through their holiday to Chicago and Mexico and ending at the first annual New Year's party. As a reminder, you'll need to be familiar with Afterward to understand this one.

Flying from Chicago to Mexico was like having two vacations in one…snow to sandy beaches, just like that. When they arrived, Mike didn't need anything but his t-shirt, not even that, really, and while Cabo San Lucas reminded him of Panama in some ways, it was drier and hotter here, the ocean a deep blue instead of almost see-through turquoise. This was okay with Mike; he didn't care what color the water was, because Mom and Dad were still in very happy moods, and that put him in a good mood, too.

They rented a little house by the beach, and at first, Mike wished it were another hotel instead, because he'd liked the elevator and fancy soaps and room service food, but then he saw the boogie boards in the closet and all the sand castle-making stuff, and the walkway right to the beach, and Mom laughed at the look on his face and said, "He's sold."

When Mike went to the beach in Panama, sometimes LJ played catch with him if he remembered to bring a frisbee and he swam with him, but here in Mexico, Mike's dad showed him where to dig big holes strategically (strategic was a word Mike knew that some six-year-olds didn't, Mrs. A said) so the tide would bring just the right amount of water into them to form little swimming pools. They dug lots of them, and then made sand castles that were really more like castle cities, with canals and roads and tunnels and everything.

They worked most of all day on one of these cities, and at one point, when Mike looked over at Mom sitting in a chair by herself, her eyes closed, he thought, _I should draw a picture of this for Ann, with Mom on one side and me and Dad together on the other_ , because for the first time Mike could see, Mom was the one alone. But she didn't seem to mind. She seemed kind of glad to be napping, actually.

After a while, Dad joined her, sitting in the chair next to her while Mike finished the last road around Sand City, and even though it was hard work, digging with his green shovel, he didn't mind, because Dad had showed him just how to stab the sand, kind of at an angle for 'maximum efficiency'. He stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed, and then he was almost done and with just one last stab—

"Ahhh!" Dad jumped, flinging his foot up so fast, sand flew everywhere. Mike froze, because he'd hit something hard by the chair and he realized it was Dad's foot at the exact time he'd yelled.

"Sorry!" Mike cried.

He looked down at Dad's flesh because what if he'd made it bleed? And then he saw…he saw…Dad had two toes gone— _two toes gone!_ —and Mike's lunch nearly come up out of his tummy. How had he…what could he have... _"Sorry!"_

"No, Mike, it's alright," he heard Dad say, from somewhere far away.

Mom echoed, "Mike, that happened a long time ago. It's okay." He felt her guide him backward until he hit her lap and sank down. The physical presence of her sun-warmed legs finally jarred him back to rational thought. He stared hard at Dad's foot.

"What happened to them?" he asked. Then, just to make sure his father hadn't forgot: "You won't lie to me, remember?"

Something about the word 'lie' had Mom rising, setting Mike gently onto the canvas bottom of her chair, and Mike felt worry rise in him again. Dad tried to get her not to leave, then, when that failed, watched her walk away, across the sand. Mike watched, too. When they were alone, Dad told him he didn't get to know the story of his missing toes, not today, and truly? This was a relief to Mike. Any story that ended in fewer toes than ten must be a scary story, a sad story, and Mike didn't want to hear scary-sad stories. Not about his dad. Not in this happy place, on the beach by the sea.

They went in the water with Mom instead, who, despite walking away from them just a few minutes ago, looked glad they were there, in the waves, with her. They talked just a little bit more about Dad's toes, and then they even joked about them, and Mike decided that yes, he'd definitely draw a Baja picture for Ann, with him with his parents as a family, all three of them flowing through the current of the waves, together.

* * *

At school, kids sometimes asked Mike about his dad. And during those sometimes, Mike hated the feeling that he got in his gut when they asked, "Where's your dad been all this time?" or "Why'd he decide to leave you?" or the worst one, "Don't you think he'll leave again?" Because he didn't know the answers. And not knowing things was the absolute worst. Not knowing made Mike feel like a field mouse he'd seen on the Nature Network in science class, scurrying around in the grass: powerless and scared.

Mrs. A said not to worry about it, that sometimes, other kids could be dumb, but Mike felt like the dumb one. He was the one who didn't even know his own father.

"Shut up," he usually said to the kids, because that was the worst word he knew that he dared use on the playground. Or, sometimes, "None of your business!". But then one day he yelled in frustration, "I don't _know_ alright?!" He'd been afraid he would start to cry after that, which would have made it twice as bad, of course. Probably three times as bad.

His friend Dylan said, "You should Google him. I Googled myself once, and it was fun."

Mike didn't know you could Google people. He thought you could only Google facts. But: "People have facts written about them," Dylan pointed out, and of course that was true. Mike should have already known that. _Dumb,_ he thought again.

But when he raised his hand later that day for a hall pass to computer lab in the library, Mrs. A wouldn't let him use the computer to find out all about his dad. He'd have to wait.

And then he forgot about it, until he was home, bored while Dad finished something at his desk, with his computer right there, not even being used by anybody. "Can I have screen time?" he asked.

Dad said sure, and Mike thought he'd start out the way Dylan had…he'd Google himself, just to make sure it worked. He typed slowly, because the letters weren't ever in the right place on a computer keyboard; they were all jumbled up instead of being alphabetical. M-I-C-H-A-E-L-S-C-O-F-I-E-L-D he typed, and that was all he needed…stuff started to come up even before he'd gotten to the junior part he knew he had at the end of his name.

There was loads. Seeing all sorts of articles and photos made Mike feel sort of famous. But he realized of course: this wasn't him. This was all about Dad. Which made it twice as interesting.

"Whoa," he said, as his eye scanned words like in-car-cer-ation and ex-on-eration, and photos sprang up of Dad in a suit standing against a wall that was like a ruler, with measurement lines along it. And then of him in a blue uniform, and then Uncle Lincoln, and then wait! Mom! In the type of white coat she wore at work. The caption read, _Prison doctor overdos—_

Poof! The page was gone, just like that. He looked up in surprise at his dad hovering over the screen. "Hey! I was looking at that!"

But instead of saying sorry for messing up the page, Dad yelled, "Did I say you could get on the internet?"

He looked mad and panicky, and Mike's brain went kind of blank, like it had been stuffed with cotton, because why was Dad yelling at him? He didn't yell…hardly ever. What had Mike done wrong?

Nothing, Dad promised, though it sure _felt_ like something, to Mike. "I overreacted," he said. "I'm sorry."

To make it better, Mike pointed out, "I think Google was talking about you, not me. Because we have the same name."

Dad knew this, he said. But when Mike asked to look at the search results again, he said _no_ , in that way parents had that made it clear that you'd better not ask again. Mike's dad hadn't even been a parent all that long, and he already knew how to do it. This didn't surprise Mike though. Not really. Dad was good at everything, it seemed to him.

He said, "Let me think," so Mike did…waiting as patiently as he could, tracing the interesting lines of ink along Dad's hands, since he wasn't mad after all. The patterns soothed him, like mazes, when he studied them. After just a minute, Dad took a deep breath, like Mike did before starting a test in Mr. House's room. He explained incarnation and exoneration, and then Mike knew one of the things that he'd wanted to know, one of the secret things that maybe his friends already knew and which made him feel dumb: Dad had been in prison. And gotten out. Which was so cool, in a super scary amazing way, no matter what Dad said about it.

He wanted to know more: why had he been incarcerated? How did he get out? Why was Mom's picture there when he Googled his and Dad's name? Her name was Sara, not Michael, like theirs. But Dad said, later, just like he had with his toes. And that's how Mike knew the stories went together: the prison and the toes. And maybe Mom? It was a big story, like a mystery, or better yet, a riddle. Mike loved riddles, and he always got them fast. He wanted to tell Dad not to worry: that if he told him this story, he'd get it really quick…hardly any explaining needed.

But instead, he wanted to make Dad happy, so Mike said, "Okay. I can have a little faith."

This was the right thing to say. Dad smiled.

"That's what Uncle Linc always says," Mike explained.

And saying _this_ made Dad hug him very tightly, in a way that made Mike think, probably, he hadn't forgotten about him when he'd been gone all those years, like some kids said. And almost certainly wouldn't leave again. And then he said, his mouth right next to Mike's ear so he couldn't mishear it: "Thank you. For being you. For being here with me. Because I am so very, very glad to be here with you."

And Mike decided to believe this, not the dumb kids. Not dumb Google. He hugged him back, already knowing what he'd say next time someone said something. _You don't know anything that I don't already know, so I don't have to care what you say. And plus, shut up._

He looked forward to it.

But then Mike went to Dakota's birthday party, and no one said anything about Dad, but Dakota's mother said something about Mom, and that made Mike feel just as awful and confused and unprepared as ever. He'd thought Mom and Dakota's mom were friends.

He tried to forget about it, but couldn't. What had it even meant…'con in her bed'? Why would Mom be scared of one? What was one? Mike knew his dad slept in her bed at night, but that was just where dads slept.

He called Mom from the party. "I want to come home early," he said, and when she asked why, he wouldn't say. "Just…can't I come home now?" he begged, and he heard his voice quiver like a baby's and then Mom said yes. Of course.

He didn't want Mom to have to come inside, so he sat out on the curb to wait, even though Dakota's mom said, "Are you sure, sweetie?" like she hadn't just been saying mean things about his mom.

When, on the way home, Mom asked again what was wrong, he told her his stomach hurt. This wasn't a lie. It did hurt. She said something about eating too much sugary food and he just nodded, even though he'd left before cake and goodie bags.

It was a Saturday, and on Saturdays, Mom was home all day. "Can we do something together?" he asked her.

She glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. "I thought you didn't feel good?" she said, but not in a 'gotcha' way. In a confused way.

"I just want to be with you today. Not at Dakota's," he insisted. "I didn't even want to go to her stupid party." His voice went up all high again, and he swallowed hard, trying not to cry.

Mom frowned at him in the mirror, but she didn't reprimand him for saying 'stupid'. "What do you want to do instead?"

"Is Dad at home?"

"Yes."

"Can we all watch Star Wars?"

Mom hesitated, like she'd rather ask more follow-up questions, but then she sighed and said, "Sure."

On the couch, with the movie starting, Mom felt Mike's forehead, just to check, she said, and Dad said, "You weren't feeling up to the party?"

Mike just said, "Nah," and focused on the screen until Dad followed his gaze, finally shifting his eyes off him. Mike exhaled.

By the time the movie ended, things felt better to Mike again, and his tummy didn't hurt anymore as he helped Dad make dinner. By the next day, he'd almost forgotten about Dakota's stupid mom. He didn't think about the birthday party again, in fact, until their next visit to Dr. Kate, when he'd been pulled out of his art time with Ann to talk with his parents.

And then he remembered. He remembered lots of times actually, when he'd heard questions, or comments, or opinions he hadn't asked to hear. And now he was being asked to repeat them. It didn't seem fair.

But the grown-ups were doing that thing they did, where they all stared at him like whatever he was about to say would change everything, so he told them. And then, just as he'd feared, he upset Mom and he caused that look to come to Dad's face, the one that reminded him of Obi-Wan Kenobi when Darth Maul tortured him in Clone Wars.

 _I'm sorry, he wanted to shout. I'm sorry that things I don't understand make you hurt._

But then Mom came back in the room, and Dad sat next to him and told him all about 'facts versus real things', which Mike would have thought were the same until he explained it. He knew then that while people like Dakota's mom might talk about the facts of their family, what was _real_ was what was what Mike could see and feel, in their house: Star Wars on the couch and cooking dinner together and getting to know one another and scaring away the darkness with paper cranes. Things like that.

And then Mom reached for Dad's hand, and he clasped it. And even though they didn't say anything to each other, their hands seemed to, things like _I love you_ and _I'm here_ and _stay near_. Mike had no idea how Mom and Dad did that, with their hands, but they did, and as far as he could tell, they always had, and he decided he liked it.

* * *

The first Christmas of Mom and Dad and Mike was a lot like Mike's very first soccer game he'd ever played: no one seemed to know the rules and kept going the wrong way and bumping into one another. Mike got the feeling Mom wanted everything to to be different this year, which was a problem, because Mike wanted everything the same, only with Dad here, too. And Dad definitely didn't know which was which. When he suggested they make gingerbread houses, it was the wrong day. When he volunteered to buy cards, they were the wrong kind. And when he tried to put lights on the house, Mom just said _wrong, wrong, wrong._

But they worked it out slowly and carefully, almost like the video game Mike played at Dylan's house, the one where you had to backtrack a lot and sidestep things that might explode around each corner. And by Christmas morning, they'd pretty much figured it out, Mike thought, because Mom and Dad both looked very happy that morning, as happy as kids looked on Christmas morning, in fact, not tired-looking or stressed-looking, like grown-ups could sometimes look.

In the afternoon, Dad helped him put together his new Star Wars toy, and when Miked looked up from the instructions to ask Mom something, he saw she'd fallen asleep on the couch, her hands tucked under her cheek. "That's weird," he said to Dad, because this wasn't the first time Mom had laid down and closed her eyes. Mom was tired all the time this Christmas.

Dad said, "Let her sleep. We were up really late last night." He smiled again, but just to himself, looking down at the part he assembled.

"At least she's not crying this year," Mike offered to his dad shyly, reaching for the connector piece he needed. Because it felt like Dad might like knowing this. "I mean, not today anyway."

"She usually cries today?" Dad asked softly.

"In her room. With the door closed." Always today, and always on Mike's birthday. But since she didn't cry today, maybe she wouldn't then, either. The thought buoyed Mike: maybe his favorite days wouldn't make Mom sad anymore.

* * *

Mike had had his doubts about their New Year party, no matter how much Mom and Dad talked it up. How could it possibly be better than going to Panama? But then the evening arrived, and he couldn't believe how many people fit into his house. The living room and kitchen were packed, and people overflowed into the den and even outside, by his bouncy house. They never had people over like this, either before his dad returned or after. They'd never had a big party, right here, and Mike decided it was the most fun thing ever.

Mom was too distracted by all the guests to stop Mike from eating anything he wanted from all the trays on the dining room table, and he had three sodas, all the caffeinated kind, and he and Marika and Dylan jumped in the bouncy house until they were super sweaty, even though it was so cold outside.

When he came inside, Benjamin had a big box of fireworks for him, which looked super awesome, even if he wasn't allowed to touch the dangerous ones yet. He stuck around, even after Mom said, "No more sparklers in the house," because he liked watching his dad with Uncle Lincoln, both of them laughing. It was true he'd only known Dad for a little while, but he'd never seen him quite this relaxed looking, and even though Marika said, "It's 'cuz of the beer," Mike didn't think so. It was because of Uncle Lincoln and Mom and Mike and all their friends being in the same room, at the same time, and it made Mike happy too, a warm feeling glowing in his chest all night.

He was still awake when the grown-ups all did a toast, clinking their glasses and talking over one another. Probably, Mom had forgotten to put him in bed, and if Mike was lucky, wouldn't remember for a while more, because she was only looking at Dad right now, sitting on the stairs with him, smiling at him like she was very pleased with herself about something. And Dad looked back at her like he'd just opened a belated Christmas present, one he'd really wanted.

Sometimes, looks like those made Mike feel just a little bit jealous, a little left out, but not tonight. Tonight, something about the way his parents smiled at one another made him think this really was the end of a very special year they were celebrating. And that probably, the next one would be even better.


	4. Chapter 4

Something was up with Mom.

Mike had given it a lot of thought since the New Year's party, and he'd decided that maybe she needed an earlier bedtime. Because Mom was always tired these days. She fell asleep reading to him at night, and sometimes, she conked out right on the couch, in the middle of the day.

"That's nothing," his friend Maddy told him. "My dad naps on the couch every weekend watching football on TV."

But Mom didn't watch football. And it wasn't just the sleeping, though that was the main thing. She also didn't eat breakfast anymore, which worried Mike.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Mom," he reminded her, when Dad made extra good oatmeal with honey and cinnamon and raisins before school.

"That's true, baby," she agreed. "Thank you for reminding me." But she still ignored her own oatmeal, maybe because Dad had made hers super plain and boring without anything but almond milk. "No thank you," she said to Mike, when he offered her some of his raisins. And then, "I'm sorry," she whispered to Dad, pushing away her bowl.

"Ah," Maddy said at school. "She's on a diet, then. Moms get super cranky when they're hungry."

"I don't think she's on a diet," Mike hedged, because it had seemed to him like Mom had wanted to eat the oatmeal, but just couldn't.

"Of course she couldn't," Maddy said breezily. "Oatmeal isn't Whole 30 compliant."

Isn't what? It didn't matter. Mike had decided Maddy didn't know anything.

Finally, at the end of January, Mom and Dad showed mercy. They sat him down in the living room after dinner, and Mom said, "We have something we want to tell you."

Mike knew Dad thought Mom worked too hard, and Mike was starting to agree. Maybe after all her napping, she realized she needed a break. Maybe they'd get to go on another vacation. "Are we going to Baja again?"

But Dad said, no, that wasn't it. Mom said, "I think maybe you've noticed how I haven't been feeling all that great lately?"

And suddenly…duh! Why hadn't Mike realized? Mom had been tired and had no appetite because she was _sick!_ He felt his tummy kind of clinch, like he was taking a dive on a roller coaster.

He turned to face her, wiggling out of her lap. He didn't want Mom's cuddles if this was something bad. Mike wanted to be the one to comfort _her_. But Mom said, "I'm fine, Mike. I'm going to be perfectly fine, but I don't feel too well right now because, uh, I'm going to have a baby."

Mike just stared at her, not really understanding. Because this was the weirdest thing she could possibly say. Mom had already told him: she didn't want any more babies. And she'd said it in a way that made Mike sure this was up to her and no one else, no argument, no opinions welcome. Certainly, Jacob's opinion on the subject hadn't been welcome. Mike remembered.

"Why?" he said. Sometimes, when things didn't compute, you just needed more information. Maybe Mike didn't have enough variables yet to solve this equation.

But Mom looked surprised by this question, then embarrassed. She mumbled something about loving Dad. This made Dad give her one of his super intense looks that had her face getting all red. Mike wasn't exactly certain what it was about these looks that made him feel squirmy, like he didn't want to be caught in the middle, but they did.

"No, I mean, why _now,_ when you told me definitely no before." He turned and explained it all to Dad, about Mom's 'no more babies after Mike' policy.

Mom just said, "I can't believe you remember that, Mike," but Dad said, "The thing is, there are right times for people to have babies, and wrong times. Before, when I wasn't back yet, wasn't the right time."

This made sense to Mike. But it also meant something else. "Do _you_ want a baby now, too?" he asked Dad.

Dad did. He really, really did.

"Because then you'll be this baby's dad?" Mike's tummy was feeling odd again, like that roller coaster had dipped slowly back down again for another whirl around the tracks.

"Yes, just like I'm your dad," Dad said. He said this in a very firm way, like maybe he wanted to stop that roller coaster. But he couldn't. Mike couldn't either.

"But then why do you need another baby when you just got me?" His tummy did its flip, and he felt his throat tighten up all painfully.

Mom tried to argue about this but Mike didn't even hear her. He looked at Dad, who looked back at him without blinking, his face set all serious. He reached for Mike. "You are the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me," he said. "I wake up every day scarcely believing I actually get to be your dad. It feels like the most wonderful dream, one I get to have again every night."

Mike felt some of the awful tightness recede from his throat. He tried to be brave, and look Dad right back in the eye, because he was still talking to him.

"And I just keep thinking, if Mike is this amazing, this smart and this special, probably his brother or his sister will be…I don't know…at least half as good?"

Mike felt himself begin to smile despite himself, because silly Dad…he wasn't calculating the odds correctly. This new baby would be just as good as Mike, because it had the same mom and dad, right? "Dad! C'mon. At _least_ half as good, but probably more than that. Probably really good I think!"

Dad agreed, and when Mike turned to see if Mom agreed, too, he saw that…she was crying. Kind of as if she'd cried the tears Mike had decided to swallow earlier. "Don't cry, Mom," he told her. "It's going to be a great baby!"

Mom just stared at them, so Dad kissed her, right there on the couch, right in front of Mike. "Eww!" he cried, but mostly he was still laughing as Dad scooped him up and squished him between them.

* * *

Mom's stomach got bigger. No, Mike corrected himself, her uterus got bigger, or at least, the baby got bigger inside it. Mike wasn't totally sure which. But the really great baby was definitely in there.

For a while, he'd been skeptical. Mom hadn't looked any different, other than not eating anything. Which made him wonder: how had the baby gotten in there in the first place? Dad said something about DNA, which didn't seem to answer the question, as far as Mike was concerned. Maddy said she knew, and would tell Mike but only if he gave her his cookie from his lunch every day for a week. Honestly, that trade didn't really seem worth it, especially since Mike knew about Google now.

At Dr. Kate's office, Ann asked Mike to draw a picture of his family. "Again?" he complained. "It's always my family." He wanted to draw DNA strands. They were cool…kind of geometric. He'd looked them up on Google but the article accompanying the illustrations hadn't talked about babies and uteruses.

But Ann said simply, "Your family is who we're here to talk about," and Mike supposed this was true. He drew Dad and Mom and himself. Then, after thinking carefully about how to go about it, he drew another, smaller person beside him, but only in pencil. Only an outline.

"Because he's not really here yet, not all the way," Mike explained. The baby was what Ann always called conceptual.

"But he _will_ be here," Ann pointed out. "Before you know it. And he might be a she."

Mike hadn't considered this possibility. He wanted a brother.

Ann picked up a piece of paper and started her own drawing. She just kind of doodled, drawing swirls and rainbows. Mike didn't know why he wasn't allowed to do that. She said, "Babies take a lot of attention, when they arrive. Boy babies _and_ girl babies."

Mike knew this. Mom had said.

"What do you think it'll be like, when he is here?" Ann said.

Mike didn't really like to wonder that. Mom had said that parents love all their children equally, and it had been easy to do the math. The way Mike saw it, this meant Mike was about to get gypped out of half the love he normally got, once the new baby took his share. Actually, he almost felt sorry for the baby: at least Mike had enjoyed 100 percent love for seven years. This new kid would have to start at 50 percent.

He explained all this to Ann, but even though he had the numbers right, she said, "Oh no, Mike. That's not how it works. You'll still get 100 percent, and the new baby will get 100 percent, too." But Ann was mistaken, because there was no such thing as 200 percent. It was like when Mike's soccer coach told them to 'give 110 percent on the pitch'. Mike used to raise his hand to remind him this was not mathematically possible, until finally Coach just started saying, 'I know, I know, Mike,' before he could be called on. He wondered whether he should bother to correct Ann, and then decided to just shrug and say, "Oh."

* * *

Toward the end of summer, Mom's belly got so big, she needed Mike to yank her by the hands to stand back up again after taking a break on the couch. It was crazy. She was hot all the time, she said, and Mike believed her: she looked sweaty even while inside, with their air conditioning turned on high.

Mike wondered: what if the baby had become too big to even be in there anymore? Because it seemed that way. And he knew Mom was a doctor, but had she really thought this through? She'd explained how the baby would come out (Mike had thought he might faint), but then kept telling Dad she didn't want any medicine when it was time. Not any! Mike wanted medicine even when his throat ached just a little.

It was impossible to cuddle up with Mom now. She was too big, her stomach always in the way, and even when she wanted Mike close, after no time at all, she'd started to say, "Okay, no more touching," because she'd gotten too hot and sticky. Mike decided moms didn't really need nine months to have babies; eight months would probably be enough, and no one would get snapped at when they left their LEGOs on the floor or dirty dishes in the sink.

Finally, finally, finally, Uncle Lincoln arrived because it was Time. That's how Mike thought of it…time with a capital T, a momentous occasion. Mike was already in bed when Mom started having the pain that meant the baby was ready to come, but he heard everything, because Mom wasn't very quiet and neither was Dad, begging her to go to the hospital.

When they finally left, Uncle Linc popped his head into Mike's room. He'd known Mike hadn't been asleep, even if he'd fooled Mom and Dad. "Don't worry, kid," he told him. "Go to sleep, and when you wake up, I bet you have a baby brother or sister. Imagine that."

Mike tried to imagine it, closing his eyes in bed and picturing a new baby, right here in their house. He'd tried to imagine this for months, of course, but it seemed every bit as fantastical now, even with the arrival so close. Mike just couldn't decide what his baby—that's how Mike thought of it, _his_ baby—would look like. Would he have brown hair like Mike? Blue eyes? Green eyes? Would he cry a lot? Dylan said his baby cousin cried all the stinking time. And…he wouldn't be a girl, would he? Surely not.

But when Mike woke up in the morning and ran downstairs to where Uncle Linc stood swearing at the fancy coffee machine he could never figure out, no matter how many times he visited, he told him, "Uh, no baby yet, I guess."

Oh. "What does Dad say?" Mike wanted to know. "Will it be soon?"

Uncle Lincoln frowned. "He's not picking up his phone right now," he admitted. "Probably some dumb hospital regulation or something. He'll call soon."

But at almost-lunch, Dad hadn't called yet. Uncle Linc called the hospital, going into Dad's office so Mike couldn't hear. But Mike stood by the door anyway, trying his best. Uncle Linc was transferred between departments a lot, and he got kind of grumpy with a few of the people he talked to, and then at one point he said a bad word to someone, but then finally he must have found the right doctor or nurse or someone to ask about Mom, because he got really quiet. Then he said, 'Uh huh, uh huh, okay, uh huh,' and then hung up.

But he didn't come out of the office. After waiting for what Mike thought was long enough, he pushed open the office door and peeked inside. Uncle Lincoln stood staring at the wall, his phone kind of forgotten-looking in his hand. "Uncle Linc? What did they say? Is it a new brother?"

He turned to look at Mike with a very weird look on his face. It was sort of the look Dakota had gotten right before she threw up once in the school cafeteria. Uncle Linc didn't puke, but he still looked sick as he said, "Uh, I'm not sure yet. I think I'll go and check in with them, okay? I was going to call Heather."

They both looked down at the phone hanging from Uncle Linc's limp fingers. "But everything is okay, right?" Mike asked. "With Mom and the baby?"

"I'm sure it is," Uncle Linc said, but he looked sick again, or like maybe he'd just swallowed something painful, like glass. He tried again, with a bit of a smile this time. "Yeah, bud. I'm sure it is."

* * *

Heather came over and picked Mike up, and in the car with Dylan talking a mile a minute and the radio playing, Mike kind of forgot about being worried about Mom. Uncle Linc said she was okay, and Mike had never known him to say anything but the truth. Too much of the truth, Mom said sometimes.

He remembered again a few times that afternoon, but in kind of an excited way, because surely, by the time he got home this evening, the baby would be born and he'd get to go see him like Dad had promised, in the hospital. But when Heather pulled up at the house, it was empty. Uncle Lincoln was at the hospital, but he hadn't invited Mike.

"Let me just check in," Heather said cheerfully, digging her phone out of her purse, but just like Uncle Linc earlier in the office, she stepped out of the car first, to talk in private.

When she returned, she said, "Your dad is coming, Mike, but I'll just hang with you here until he arrives, alright? We'll get dinner started." She didn't quite look at Mike as she said this, which was strange.

Dylan was fine with this—Mike had the better LEGO collection—but Mike felt something kind of scary begin to edge its way into his day. It wasn't fear, exactly, and only sort of worry, but it crept up, never-the-less, like a shadow. "Why can't you just drop me off at the hospital?" he asked Heather. He tried not to let his voice crack, but now that he was thinking about this, he realized he really, really wanted his mom.

Heather didn't quite look at him, peering into their cupboards for inspiration for dinner. "Hmm?" she said. "Because your dad is coming to _you_ , sweetie."

"But I want my _mom_ ," Mike clarified. That shadowy feeling completely covered him now, like a dark blanket. It echoed one thought, over and over: mom, mom, mom.

Heather said, "How about spaghetti?" But after pulling out the pasta, she disappeared into the bathroom for a long time, leaving Mike alone.

* * *

Finally, Dad and Uncle Linc pulled up at the house, and after hugging Dad tightly, Heather hurried off with Dylan. Uncle Linc tried to make Dad a plate of spaghetti, but Dad muttered, "I couldn't possibly." He bent down to Mike, and for the first time since walking in, he smiled. The smile looked a little forced around the edges, like Dad's very first smiles to Mike, when he'd been so unsure and they'd both been tip-toeing around one another, and this made no sense to Mike, but any sort of smiling at all _did_ make him feel a bit better. "Have you heard, Mike?" Dad said, with another of his strange smiles. "You have a new baby brother."

"Yes! A boy!" For a second, the worry went away and happiness spilled over. A boy was exactly what Mike wanted. Dad had pictures on his phone, and _oh! Wow._ The new baby didn't really look like Mike—more like Dad—but he was cute, that was for sure. He wore a little hat on his head and everything.

Then Mike looked from the phone to Dad's face, still kind of tinged with something like stress, and wondered…just how much work was it, watching Mom have a baby? Because Dad looked…he looked…exhausted, Mike decided. But that wasn't quite the right word. _Dead on his feet,_ his brain supplied. Yes, that was it.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back home," Dad said. "But here's the thing. Your mom is still in the hospital and she's going to be there for a little while longer."

The fear returned with a vengeance. Mike had thought it was kind of gone, after seeing those cute pictures, but no. "Is Mom alright?"

Another odd smile. "She will be."

Because Dad seemed to be trying so hard to be cheerful, Mike tried, too. He said 'yes' when Dad asked if he wanted to story before bed, even though he could read to himself if Dad was tired. It felt good to settle into bed with Dad next to him, to lay his head on his shoulder to see the pictures, to hear his voice as he read a Star Wars book Mike knew by heart.

"When is the baby going to be home with us?" Mike asked, when Dad had paused between chapters, kind of not seeing the page.

He had to stir himself back awake, sort of, even though his eyes hadn't closed. "Soon. He'll come home with Mom, I think."

Mike wondered about that, about when Mom would be home. He had follow-up questions, but Dad looked so worn out, he let them die on his tongue. The next time Dad stopped reading midway through the page, Mike noticed his eyes had closed. Mike lowered the book from his hands and set it on the bedside table. Then he turned out his light, and through all this, Dad didn't even stir. So Mike just kind of wiggled up against him and closed his eyes too. If he couldn't be with Mom, Mike felt a little bit better where he could hear Dad's breathing, in and out, and listen to the bump-bump-bump of his heart.

* * *

But when Mike woke up the next morning, Dad wasn't there again. Uncle Linc said, "Looks like it's you and me today, kid," leaving it to Mike to fill in the blanks. Mom wasn't back with the baby yet, then. Dad was with them, but Mike didn't get to be. Another fierce tug of longing for Mom consumed him, swallowing him whole.

Midway through the afternoon, Uncle Linc left him too, to go back to the hospital. Heather came back over, but only for a while…then Maddy's mom came and he went over to her house for dinner. They were having tacos and Maddy's mom made really good ones, but Mike didn't want to be there. He didn't understand: why did everyone else get to take turns at the hospital, but not Mike? Did they think he was a little kid? That he couldn't stay quiet enough? What was it?

Another night with Uncle Lincoln.

And mostly, Uncle Linc seemed lost in his own thoughts. He didn't ignore Mike, nothing like that, but he didn't get down on the floor with him and play LEGOs or joke with him about movies and stuff like he usually did. He did a lot of sightless staring out the window, like Dad had done with the book. Why was he still here? Why wasn't Mike with Mom?

Uncle Linc got back on the phone with Dad after Mike's bedtime. Mike knew it was Dad he talked to, because Uncle Linc said 'Mike' a lot, and he was the only one who called Dad and Mike the same name sometimes. They were waiting for something, for something to be decided or determined and Mike didn't know what and he didn't like not knowing things. He curled himself into a tight little ball in his bed and tried to pretend Dad was here with him again.

The next time he woke up, it wasn't even light yet. Mike lay in bed, trying to decide if it was still night or not—sometimes you could tell by the sounds outside, or the shade of the darkness, light gray or pitch black—and then he heard Uncle Linc talking again, on the phone. Mike realized; that was what had woken him. The phone ringing.

He heard Uncle Lincoln say, "Thank God," then again, but with a bad swear word Mike wasn't allowed to repeat. "Thank you f-word-ing God." Mike wondered if this was a very nice way to thank a deity, actually, but for the first time in days, Uncle Lincoln sounded truly relieved and happy, so he slid out of bed and stood in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. When Uncle Linc turned and saw him there, he wasn't even mad.

"Come here, bud," he said, in a tone of voice almost like a cry. "Just…c'mere." He squeezed Mike really tightly and finally said the words Mike wanted to hear. "Later, let's go see your mom today, alright? Let's go meet that little sh—trouble maker—of a brother."

"Alright!" Mike said. He didn't even care if Uncle Linc had almost sweared again. He pumped his fist in the air and Uncle Lincoln laughed, but the laugh was really rough and kind of loud and when Mike pulled back, he saw that he'd leaked tears or snot or something all over his Rogue One pajama shirt. Eww.

* * *

He had to wait until after lunch, which seemed like an eternity, but finally, Uncle Lincoln said, "We have the green light," and they got in the car to go see Mom and the baby.

The baby's name was Henry, Uncle Linc said, and because this seemed like just one more detail no one had told him, Mike answered kind of grumpily, "I wish I'd known earlier." If he'd known, he would have made baby Henry a special card or a welcome sign or something.

But Uncle Lincoln said, "You and me both," which told Mike that he hadn't known the baby's name either, not until just today.

At the hospital, Uncle Linc knew right where to go, even though the place was huge and all the hallways had the same white linoleum floors and beige walls. But once they were on the right floor, Mike didn't have to be told the room number. He could hear Mom's voice, and he began to run.

"Hey, slow down," Uncle Linc called, but only half-heartedly.

Mike meant to say hi to Mom first, but once he'd burst into the room, he just couldn't help himself: he ran straight to the baby. "He's so little," he cried, looking down into the clear plastic bassinet. He reached down and touched baby Henry's hand experimentally. His brother grasped his finger—tightly, too!—and Mike thought he might positively burst with excitement. "I think he knows me already!"

Mom said, "Mike, come here, baby," and then he remembered, in one sudden, fierce wave, how much he'd missed her and had wanted her. He bounded back to her, getting a good running start to leap onto her bed. Just before he could land, however, Uncle Linc stopped him—just like that, like he hardly had to try—with one arm.

"Gentle!" Dad told him, at the same instant.

"Why? Mom's fine, right Mom?" Because Mike could see now that he'd been worried for nothing. Here was Mom, right in front of him, sitting up and smiling and looking exactly Mom-like.

"Well, I _am_ pretty sore," she admitted. "Gentle would be nice."

"Did you really have surgery?" Mike asked. "Like where they cut open your stomach and everything?" It sounded like something out of one of those movies Maddy loved to watch. Mom said yes, and that she had the scar to prove it. "Eww," Mike said again, because even the thought of it made him gag. But also… _cool._

Uncle Linc got to hold baby Henry next, and the adults talked for a little while, and then a crabby-looking nurse told them they all had to leave to let Mom sleep. Mike thought this was funny: it was the middle of the day. But Dad said she was tired still, and if Mike wanted to go get ice cream with Uncle Linc at the cafeteria downstairs, he'd be right behind him.

Mike climbed back up on Mom's bed more carefully this time, and she kissed him goodbye and said _I'll see you soon_ , and he believed her, he did, but he still turned and looked back at her one more time before walking out. It was stupid, he knew, but he just needed to make sure: yep, Mom was just fine, laying back on her pillow with Dad and baby Henry next to her, still smiling at Mike.

"See you soon," Mike called back to her.


End file.
